Dried Ink

Maybe if I eat stale bread and water,
growl like a mad woman
running from her empty life,
maybe then I could make sense of this God-forsaken
aloneness
that hovers over me,
for the wind is harsh
when it does not love,
when it does not serve,
I am nothing but a small indiscretion
a page turning
feathered nests of vultures
a hankering, so to speak,
a ribald taste for streams of thoughts
or living words
I will never write down,
warrior goddess, born of salt,
colourless I
patina's light as fades from
acrid memory,

perhaps I am insignificant,
a small brown sparrow,
flying to time's thinnest branch and I am excused
from singing of my dullness, female
and deranged enough to cut my own heart out
and leave the woodcutter in peace,
dancing in a caravan of blind vagabonds and Lovers

but you have wandered off without us
and your fingertips have forgotten me
everything is melting in the dark

I live in a small disappearing room where
dreams are lost,

stitch myself into this poem with drops of
blood,

neither God nor pale butterflies are free
I am alone here, please do not assault me with the colour
of your Joy

only the dried ink of this poem to cherish me.